


Take Control

by theunremarkable



Series: Kodaline [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1970s, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Recovery isn't linear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25331167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunremarkable/pseuds/theunremarkable
Summary: You are No OneI am Bucky. I know thisYou are BuckyHe knows this~But Bucky does not know, that it has been a year.He does not know that it has been a year of the same conversation.He does not know that it has been a year of the same tears from Peggy.He does not know that when he sleeps, he forgets.Bucky does not know that when he wakes, he will again beNo One.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Kodaline [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815748
Comments: 60
Kudos: 213





	1. No One

**Author's Note:**

> Each of the stories in The Kodaline Series will be accompanied by a little soundtrack by Kodaline that inspired the work, either by title, lyrics, feelings or otherwise.
> 
> [Take Control, by Kodaline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UB7-Zs16Fnk)
> 
> ~
> 
> I wrote this lil guy in less than a day so it's mostly unedited, but I think that adds to the overall feel of the story, and hopefully you do too! I'm aware that this is written oddly, and differently from what you might be used to or expect, but I promise it will make sense in future chapters!

He sits

He waits

A lady comes to visit him

He does not know who she is

Peggy she says. Peggy Carter

He does not know what she wants

Do you know where you are she says

That is what she wants

He shakes his head. He knows that he does not know

Do you know what happened she says

That is what she wants

He shakes his head again. He knows that he does not know

Do you know who you are she says

He nods

Sergeant Barnes she says

He shakes his head

James she says

He shakes his head

Bucky she says

He stills barely a moment. He shakes his head. He waits for the punishment. It does not come

Then who she says

He shakes his head

Who are you she says

I am _No One_ he says

His voice is old, but he has seen his face and it is not old

He does not ever get punishment for that answer

He is punished

This time it is a different sort of punishment

Her eyes fill with tears

He said the wrong thing and now she is punished

But she smiles at him. It is sad. But she still smiles. While she is being punished

Will you take a walk with me she says

He does not know the right answer

The only time he leaves the room is to be punished. If he leaves the room, he will be punished. He does not know what to do

The right answer is yes and she takes him out of the room

Her hands are soft they do not punish him

She is still being punished. She is still crying

They walk. There is grass

He knows that word. He knows that word in thirteen languages

But he does not know what it smells like. What it feels like

He does not know who he is

His face must show that he does not know

He is malfunctioning

Or perhaps she is his new handler and she knows

But she still does not punish him

Her hands are soft

Touch it she says

Feel it she says

He does and he is not punished

But she still is. The tears still fall

She lets him sit

She lets him touch lets him feel

Then she says they must go

He will be punished if he does not go

They walk back to his room

So far he has not been punished

They sit

I must leave she says. But I would like you to do something she says

It is an order

He will be punished if he does not

He doesn’t speak

The only words he is allowed to say is I am _No One_

Take control of who you are James. Take control James Buchanan Barnes Sergeant Barnes of the 107th Bucky Barnes of Brooklyn. Take control she says

He is not allowed control

He does not know control

But she is telling him to take control

He cannot take control of those words. He does not know them

He cannot take control of who he is

He is _No One_

But she tells him to so he does

He is in the room. It is not hot. It is not cold. It just is. As is he

No he is more than that. He is _No One_ therefore the room must be _Nothing_

There is a mirror for his young face and old voice

Take control of who you are Buchanan James 107th Bucky Sergeant Brooklyn Barnes

He does not take control and he will be punished

He does not take control

The punishment does not come

He punishes himself. He breaks the mirror. There is blood. It is his own blood, but it does not hurt

But he shakes

His breath is loud

I am Bucky

_You are No One_

I am Bucky Barnes

_You are No One_

James Buchanan Barnes, of the 10-

_You are No One  
_

Soldat

_You are No One_

солдат

_You are No One_

He screams. There is no noise. The is only _No One_

I am Bucky. I know this

_You are No One_

I am Bucky. I know this

_You are No One_

I am Bucky. I know this

_You are Bucky_

He knows this

He sleeps

_You are No One_


	2. He

He sits.

He waits.

A lady comes to visit him.

He does not know who she is.

Peggy, she says.

They sit.

He waits.

She is going to cut his hair, she says. It might help him remember who he is, she says.

He does not know who he is. 

That is what she wants.

He waits.

She brings out scissors.

He sits still. 

He complies.

He fails.

He cannot help it. 

He does not know who he is.

He does not know where he is.

But he knows he has not been punished in a long time.

His old voice and young face and pain free body tell him that.

He cannot help it.

No, he breathes. 

It’s soft, she should not hear it.

But she does.

And she stops.

She stops, and there is no punishment.

Peggy smiles, there are no tears, she is not punished either.

Okay, she says.

He waits.

The punishment does not come. Not for him, not for Peggy.

Instead, she takes him for a walk.

There is grass. She tells him to touch, to feel. 

It is an order.

He complies.

He is not punished.

Instead, he is given a comb.

To brush your hair. We can do it together, she says. 

She shows him how. 

Not on his head, but on her own.

Today she is not going to ask him to take control, she says.

He nods. He does not know what that means, but she said it is not happening so it does not matter.

Do you understand, she says.

He shakes his head.

I always asks you to take control of who you are, she says.

He does not know who he is.

He does know.

He is _No One._

I will not ask you to do that today, she says.

She leaves.

He is not punished.

He sleeps with the comb beside him in his bed.

**~**

He sits.

He waits.

His hair is not short.

He does not know who he is, but he knows that he has a comb.

A lady comes. 

A lady always comes. 

He does not know who she is.

He waits for her to sit.

Before she can tell him, he picks up the comb.

She is punished, her eyes fill with tears.

He ducks his head.

He waits for his own punishment.

His hair, not short, falls around his face.

"No, these are… These are not bad. These are good. I’m happy.” She says.

He’s confused. Tears are not happy.

Tears are pain, they are punishment. 

But she is in control. He knows this.

He is not allowed control, but she is.

“Here, we’ll brush our hair together.” She says.

It's an order. 

They brush their hair.

She sits. She folds her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her hands are soft, but he doesn’t know how he knows this.

“Do you know who I am?” She says.

He hesitates, her soft hands remain folded. 

He nods.

The tears brim again. She smiles. He hopes they are her happy tears again.

“Can you tell me?” She says.

He shakes his head.

"Do you know who you are?” She says.

He pauses. He is not punished.

He shakes his head.

She smiles again.

He does not know who he is, but he owns a comb.

He sleeps with the comb beside him in his bed. 

~

He sits.

He waits.

His hair is long.

A lady comes to visit him.

He knows who she is.

“Peggy,” he says.

He is not punished.

She is not punished. She smiles. 

He holds out the comb, and together they brush their hair. Hers is longer than his. It shines.

His hair does not shine.

She takes him for a walk.

He touches, he feels the grass. He doesn’t ask.

He pauses, he didn’t ask.

Peggy smiles at him. 

She is not punished.

He is not punished.

He sleeps with his comb beside him and the smell of grass in his bed. 

~

He sits.

He does not wait.

His hair, it’s hurting him. It’s itching him, his head, his shoulders, his skin.

He is being punished.

Peggy comes to visit him.

He brushed his hair without her.

He cowers.

He will be punished. He has not been punished in a long time, but he is being punished now with his itchy hair. He will continue to be punished, when she learns he has brushed his hair without her.

She looks at him. She is sad, she is being punished too.

“What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head.

“Shall we brush our hair?” She asks.

He shakes his head.

“Why not?” It’s an order. He cannot answer with a head movement.

“I already brushed it.”

“Okay.”

He is not punished.

She is not punished.

She does not take the comb away.

He smells tears. They are not happy. There is no grass today.

He sleeps with the comb beside him and no smell of grass in his bed.

~

He sits.

He waits.

Peggy comes to visit him.

Peggy always comes to visit him.

They brush their hair, and hers always shines more than his. He cannot help staring. The light shines off it, sparkles, it reminds him of-

Nothing.

“Yes?” She asks.

She has caught him staring, and he will be punished.

He is not punished.

Peggy has not punished him yet.

“What were you looking at?”

It’s an order.

He shakes.

He takes a breath.

“It shines.” He says.

He is not punished.

“Yes, it does. I wash it, that makes it shine. Would you like yours to shine too?”

He does not answer.

She does not make his hair shine.

They walk to the grass. He does not ask to touch, to feel. He just does.

He is not punished.

He sleeps with his itchy hair, his scalp, his skin. He sleeps with the comb beside him in his sleep. There is grass in between his toes.

~

He sits.

He waits.

Peggy comes to visit him.

Peggy always comes to visit him.

“You told me that my hair shines. Do you remember that?”

He nods.

He is not punished. He is not punished for remembering.

She smiles. Her smiles, he decides, are a reward. He would like to be rewarded all the time.

Her smiles are almost as shining as her hair.

“I would like to make your hair shine too.”

It’s an order. He follows her.

There is water.

He is being punished.

He shakes. His whole body, not his head. 

He is _No One_.

Peggy looks scared.

They are both being punished.

“It’s to make your hair shine,” she explains.

“No,” he whispers.

“Okay,” she replies. And doesn’t make him get in the water.

He waits.

She waits.

They are not punished.

Her hair still shines.

Slowly, he sits.

She smiles. He is rewarded for sitting.

He is now curious. 

He reaches a hand out, to the tub.

Her smile grows.

He is not punished for curiosity.

He dips his finger tip in the water. It is warm, but not as warm as her smile. Not as warm as his heart feels when he sees her smile.

They sit.

They wait.

“How do you make it shine?” He asks.

He is not punished for asking. 

“You wet your hair, and then wash it with soap. You wet it again, and then brush it.”

He jerks his fingers out of the water. It has burnt him, though the water is now cool.

“Would you like me to show you?”

He shakes his head. He does not want to see her punished.

“I have to do it anyway, or it won't shine tomorrow. You can watch, and then we can go for a walk.”

He is torn. He does not like being punished, and he will not like watching her be punished.

But she is still smiling.

And there will be grass.

She is still smiling as she wets her hair. There is no hose. It’s not hard or fast or cold. It’s soft and slow and warm.

She is still smiling as she finds the soap. There is no soap, there is a bottle. It's not coarse or round or smells in a way that twists his stomach. It is smooth and gloopy and smells like-.

It smells like her smile. 

She is still smiling as she moves it through her hair, on her head, to the parts that are longer than his own. There are bubbles.

She is still smiling as she wets her hair again. There’s no hose. It’s still soft and slow and warm.

She is still smiling as she dries her hair with a towel. It's not rough and harsh and hard. It is soft and soft and soft.

She is still smiling as she brushes her hair.

“Shall we go for a walk?” She asks, and she is still smiling.

Her hand touches his elbow as she leads him away. He wants to flinch, but her hand is soft, soft like the water and the soap and the towel and her smile. 

They walk, her with her shiny hair, and him with his not shiny hair and grass between his toes.

He sleeps with the comb beside him in his bed and grass between his toes and the memory of her smile and the feel of soft and soft and soft.

~

He sits.

He waits.

Peggy comes to visit him.

Peggy always comes to visit him.

Her hair is shiny today, and he knows how.

“Would you like to wash your hair today?”

It’s an order?

He nods.

But he wanted to nod. He does not know who he is, but he knows he wants to nod.

She leads him to the same place as before, with her soft hands.

He sits where he sat before. She smiles. They wait.

He touches the water. She smiles. They wait.

With the fingers he touched to the water, he touches them to his head. It’s not soft.

It’s wet.

But she smiles.

He puts his fingers back in the tub and back to his head. Over and over.

There is a puddle on the floor.

He is not punished.

She smiles.

“Now the soap.”

It’s an order.

She lets him hold the bottle. Let’s him pour. He pours too much. He is not punished.

Like with the water, he touches his hand to his head. It is cool but not cold, and gloopy, and there are bubbles and a soft smell.

It smells better than grass. 

It gloops to his shoulders and mixes with the puddle.

He is still not punished.

But she does not look happy. These are not the optimum conditions.

“Now we wet again.” Her face is pursed, but he is still not punished.

Like with the water and the soap and now the water again. He touches his hand to his hair. He puts his fingers back in the tub and back to his head. Over and over.

She hands him a towel. It is soft and soft and soft but also wet and wet and wet.

She hands him a brush.

They walk to the grass, but he cannot smell it over the soap.

He touches, he feels.

His hair is not shiny. But he is not punished.

He sleeps with the comb beside him and grass in his toes and the memory of her smile and feel of soft and soft and soft and his own not soft hair and the smell of -

~

He waits. He does not sit, he stands.

He cannot wash his hair. 

His arm has malfunctioned, it cannot move. He will be punished. They have to fix it.

“What’s wrong?” She questions. She looks- concerned. The arm is broken, of course she is concerned. They will have to fix it.

His arm speaks for him. It creaks.

“Oh. Will you let us fix it?”

He is confused. It’s not an order, but it is.

He needs his arm. They need his arm. He cannot function without his arm. He will be of no use.

He doesn’t answer.

“Well, in any case we will still wash your hair. You can decide while we do that.”

He does not get to decide. It is not his choice.

She is in control. He is not.

She leads him to the tub with her soft hands and he doesn’t even think to flinch.

He cannot wash his hair. His arm has malfunctioned.

“Let me help you.” It’s an order. He nods.

She puts his back to the tub and tilts his head back.

His throat is exposed, but her hands are soft and the tilt is gentle.

She puts a towel between his neck and the tub. It is soft and soft and soft but not as soft as her hands or her smile.

“I’m going to pour some water on your head now.”

He stiffens. He is trapped by her soft hands and her soft smile.

But it’s so soft.

She pours the water and it is warm. It does not burn him or drown him or take his arm. It just falls, in a puddle.

“No matter,” she murmurs when he stiffens. “Time for the soap,” she says. 

He stiffens further. That is not possible.

She finds the soap and pours a small amount into her hair. 

His hands fly to his neck as she runs them through his hair.

But he is not punished.

He is… rewarded.

With her soft hands and the soft soap and the soft scratches to his head and the soft smell of-

“Lavender,” she explains. “ It's a flower. It’s my favourite. I find it very calming.”

He knows what it is and how to say it but he never knew it smelt like this. He does not know who he is but he knows what lavender smells like. 

There are more bubbles than he could get. He likes the bubbles.

She wets his hair. It is soft and warm and washes the bubbles away but not the smell.

He is sad the bubbles are gone but he is glad the smell is still there.

His arm has malfunctioned. 

She brushes his hair, and then her own.

His hair shines.

He… smiles?

It’s small, she shouldn’t see it. But she does.

He is not punished.

She smiles. It’s her softest and biggest and warmest smile yet.

They go for a walk. There’s grass.

He goes back to the room and his hair still shines. He can see it in the mirror with his young face and old voice and shiny hair.

He practices smiling.

He sleeps with the comb beside him and grass in his toes and the memory of her smile and feel of soft and soft and soft and his own soft and shiny hair and the smell of lavender.

~

He does not wait, Peggy is already there when he wakes.

“You slept well,” she says. “It’s already passed our usual time.”

The words are bad, but he does not stiffen. He does not think he will be punished. Peggy has not punished him yet, except with her tears. 

His hair is still soft and shiny. He touches it.

“It looks good. You look good. I’m glad you slept.”

He gives her a smile he practised. It’s small, but hers is not.

“They want to fix your arm today.”

He is being punished.

“Would you like me to wash your hair while they fix your arm?”

It’s... not an order? 

But it will happen. And he likes the soft of her hands.

He nods.

They fix his arm and Peggy washes his hair and smiles and he is not punished.

He is given another comb and a purple flower for his room and shiny hair.

He does not know who he is, but he thinks that he is not _No One_.

He sleeps with the comb beside him and grass in his toes and the memory of her smile and feel of soft and soft and soft and his own soft and shiny hair and the smell of lavender and his cheeks are warm from his own smile.

~


	3. Someone

He sits.

He waits.

Peggy comes to visit him.

“Where are we?” He asks.

She looks surprised, but he is not punished.

“We are in Washington.”

They walk, they wash his hair, and on the day that he learns he is in Washington, Peggy teaches him how to play cards.

He already knows this. He doesn’t know how, but he knows more games then she explains, he can calculate all the ways to win from the first hand and can work out how to bleed the life from her eyes with only one card.

But on the day he learns he is in Washington, he learns that he can make her smile by letting her win.

He is caught.

“Tomorrow, we play for real. Don’t let me win.”

But he is not punished. Peggy never punishes him.

She leaves the cards, besides his purple lavender flower and comb.

~

He sits.

He waits.

Peggy comes to visit him, and she has a small packet in her hands. He already has cards.

“Cigarettes,” she explains. “We are going to bet them. I think now you will not let me win.”

It’s an order. She is right.

He wins. He collects all the cigarettes, and gives them back to her.

“No, no,” she says, and she is surprised. “You won them.”

“No,” he says. He does not know what this is, but he is not rewarded for winning. He must always win. He is punished for losing, but not rewarded for winning.

“We’ll share them, then,” she says, and smiles.

Neither of them are punished.

They walk to the grass and share a cigarette.

He is frowning, he can feel it. Peggy can see it.

“What is it?”

Not an order, a question. 

A question is still an order, and he must answer.

“It tastes like…” and he frowns.

“Tastes like what?” But he shakes his head. He cannot tell her, but the sound of her soft voice is taking the taste away. “Do you not like it?” He wants her to stop talking. He can’t answer if she talks.

“No, it’s- In my head, it tastes in my head.”

“Ah. A memory.”

He stills. 

There is a chair. There is electricity. There is fire, tears, screams, blood, _No One_.

But there is no chair.

There is only grass.

He is not punished. 

“Maybe,” he says.

He takes another breath.

The taste is still there, in his head.

When he goes back to his room, there are cigarettes beside his comb and purple lavender flower and cards.

~

He sits.

He waits.

“We are in Washington,” he says when Peggy enters. When she nods, he asks, “Why?”

She pauses. Perhaps he will be punished. He is not.

“I live here.”

Of course. He is wherever his handler is.

He has already asked one question, but he dares another.

“What is my purpose?”

“Your purpose is to remember, to be who you are. It’s to take control of who you are.”

“I do not know who I am.”

“That’s why I’m here,” and she smiles, but it's sad. He does not like her sad smiles. She says they are not a punishment but he thinks that they are.

They play cards and share a cigarette. The taste in his head is still there, but he does not know what it is.

“Would you like to go somewhere else?”

“Not Washington?”

He is being punished for knowing where he is. He will be moved.

“No, for our walk. Not to the grass, somewhere else.”

He is torn, he likes the grass. 

But it is not for him to decide. He does not have a choice. He is not in control.

“You’ll like it, I promise.”

He does not like things. He is not allowed.

But, still he does. He likes the grass and his shiny hair and Peggy’s soft smiles and hands and the taste in his head of a cigarette.

“Come one, we’ll share another cigarette on the way.”

An order. Not his choice. He is not in control.

Peggy leads them in a different way. She did not lie, they are not going to the grass. 

Instead they go to a new world.

A world of colour, of sound, of wonder.

“Gardens,” she explains, as he reaches forward and touches and feels without asking. He is rewarded with her smile. “Flowers, too many for me to name, but walk with me, I’ll name what I can.”

“What’s your favourite?” She asks as they walk back. They did not share the cigarette. He said no, and he wasn’t punished for it. He didn’t want the taste in his head while he was seeing the colours.

“Lavender,” he says.

He is rewarded. She smiles, and links his arm through his, patting his forearm with her soft hands.

“Mine too. Mine too.”

~

He does not sit or wait.

He stands by his door as Peggy opens it.

“Going somewhere?” She asks, but she is not angry. She is amused, with her smile.

“The garden?” He asks, a question, and is rewarded for asking.

Today, he tells Peggy of the flowers he knows. He does not know more than she does, she is the one who told him, but she smiles and listens all the same.

He picks some lavender from the garden and gives it to her.

He is not punished, he is rewarded, with her soft smile and soft hand. She squeezes his hand, but it does not hurt. It is gentle, like Peggy and lavender.

She laces the lavender through a buttonhole.

“Have you thought of what the cigarette tastes like in your head?” She asks as they sit between the flowers. There is still grass.

He thinks for a moment. He is not punished for taking his time. “Mud.” He decides. “Mud, and cold, and loud beeps, and a soft scratching noise.”

He looks at her. He wonders if that was the right answer.

It was, she smiles.

“And blue,” he adds. 

He is not rewarded. Her face falls.

They do not share a cigarette.

When she leaves, she is punished. Her eyes are wet. Tears. She does not say they are happy. She does not smile.

~ 

He sits.

He waits.

He wonders if Peggy will come. Perhaps she has had enough of being punished by him.

Perhaps she will punish him herself.

She does not come.

That is punishment enough.

~

He sits.

He waits.

Peggy comes.

“Have you been awake all night?” She asks. She sounds disappointed.

He has failed, with his blue taste.

“Would you like to go to the gardens?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Would you like to share a cigarette?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

It’s an order.

“You didn’t come.”

“I come every day. I think you have not slept.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Sleep now. I will be here when you wake up, and then we can go for a walk. We can go to the gardens and the grass.”

She tucks him in and it hurts his heart. He is being punished, even though her hands are soft.

She takes the lavender from her buttonhole and places beside his head. Beside his comb. He now has two lavender flowers.

He sleeps.

She is there when he wakes.

He does not mention the blue taste, but his heart still hurts from the punishment.

~

“Do you remember anything?” She asks between the yellow and the orange flowers, that he knows the names of and knows she knows the names of so he does not tell her again. He looks at them. He’s not sure what orange tastes like.

“Do you remember who you are?” She asks. He looks to the yellow flowers. He does not know what they taste like.

“Who are you?” She asks. He can see lavender in the distance. He knows what that tastes like with his mouth, because he ate both the flowers and the soap when Peggy wasn’t looking. He was punished, they burnt his mouth. But the purple flower in his mind tastes like soft and warm.

“Peggy, who are you?” He asks back, still looking at the purple, because it calms him like it calms Peggy. “I know you are Peggy, but who are you?”

“Who am I to you?”

“My handler?” He tries.

He is wrong. He is punished, and Peggy is punished. She cries, he knows this even though she tries to hide her face behind her hands.

When she stops crying, he asks, “Who am I to you?”

“I would like to be you to be my friend.”

“Okay.” They both take a purple flower that day. Bucky thinks of taking an orange flower, but he is not allowed.

~

“There is someone I would like you to meet.”

His heart hurts. This is his new punishment. He feels it a lot. He’s not sure how they manage to punish his heart without him seeing, but it happens a lot.

He has failed. Peggy has no use for him, and now she will give him to someone else. He will wake up somewhere different with someone different who might not have soft hands and like lavender.

“My new handler.” He confirms.

He is wrong, so she is punished. She is sad.

“No. A friend.”

~

He sits.

He does not wait.

He brushes his hair. He is not sure why, but he thinks he should brush his hair before he sees his new handler- no, a friend.

Peggy comes to visit him.

A man comes with her. He is larger, and slightly round, and has hair on his face that has been brushed. He wears a funny hat and an even funnier smile. 

“This is Dum Dum,” Peggy explains as they walk to the gardens. “He’s a friend.”

He nods. Peggy is in control. It does not matter who Dum Dum is. He is here.

The man, Dum Dum, and Peggy talk a lot on the way. He does not.

When they reach the garden, Peggy gestures for him to lead. He explains the flowers, but to Peggy. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to speak to her friend. But Dum Dum knows some flowers that he does not, that Peggy did not. He repeats them, and the man smiles. He is rewarded. Dum Dum’s smile is not as soft as Peggy’s but it is just as warm.

“We like lavender,” he explains as they sit and share a cigarette. He looks to Peggy, who nods. Dum Dum is still smiling, so he asks, “What’s your favourite?”

“Pansies, Sarge,” and Peggy stills, the Dum Dum stills, he stills. They are to be punished, because he asked a question.

But no one is punished.

Instead, he hands back the cigarette.

“Thank you,” Dum Dum says, when he realises it was the last of the cigarette.

He shrugs. “You taste like cigarettes.” The man is confused. “In my head, you taste like cigarettes,” he explains, and Peggy smiles.

Dum Dum smiles, and then-

It’s loud.

Dum Dum is laughing. He is not punished. “Darn glad to hear it.”

They are silent as they sit on the grass. They walk back to the room.

“Dum Dum is going to leave now.”

“Are you going to come back?” Because he wasn’t punished for asking him a question before.

“Yeah, if you’d like that.”

He doesn’t like anything. He isn’t allowed. But he likes his comb and shiny hair and his lavender and cards and cigarettes and the taste in his head and Peggy’s soft hands and Dum Dum’s loud laugh.

Dum Dum is a friend. Perhaps they will not be punished. He tries again.

“It’s the wrong blue,” he says.

Peggy is punished, Dum Dum is punished. In their faces, and their eyes.

“Yeah. It is.” Dum Dum says.

His heart is punished.

~

“Did you like Dum Dum?” Peggy asks a few days later.

He nods, even though he is not allowed to like.

It’s the right answer.

“I thought you would. There is another friend I would like you to meet. She is coming after we wash our hair.”

A lady comes to visit him.

She looks like him, if his face was as old as his voice.

“Are you like me?” He asks.

It was the right thing to ask. He is not punished. She smiles. “Yes.”

He stares at her smile. It’s bigger than his is, but he thinks it might be the same, if it was smaller.

“Do you know who you are?” Because it’s a question Peggy has asked him, and this new lady is like him.

“Yes. I’m Becca.”

“You don’t taste like cigarettes,” he tells Becca.

She looks confused, so Peggy answers for her. “No, I don’t think so. I think she might taste like something else.”

“I don’t know,” and he frowns. He thinks he should know, especially if she is like him. And she should know what he tastes like in her head. But he is not punished.

“I don’t know either. But she has brought you a present.”

He’s not sure what a present is.

It turns out a present is like his comb or his lavender or his cards or his cigarettes. Dum Dum didn’t bring him a present.

Becca’s present is apple pie, she calls it.

Peggy asks if he would like to go to the grass or the gardens.

He’s not sure. He is not in control. He is not allowed control. But this is a choice.

Becca is like him. She will understand.

She does not. “Grass or gardens?” She asks. Perhaps Becca is allowed control. Because she is like him but knows who she is.

He takes them to the gardens, and he is not punished. He is right. He’s glad he didn’t pick the grass.

“What is your favourite flower?” He asks after he shows her them all, making sure to add in the flowers Dum Dum told him. Peggy smiles. He is not punished.

“I hate flowers,” Becca says. She sounds angry, but he is not punished.

He smiles. He does not know why. If she is angry, then it is his fault, and he should be punished. But her anger makes him smile.

She looks unimpressed, he is not rewarded for smiling. He does not know why, but he is not afraid of being punished. Maybe because Becca is like him. 

Instead, he laughs. He doesn’t mean to, and it doesn’t sound like Dum Dum’s laugh. But he laughs, and he is rewarded.

They both smile.

They share his present from Becca, sitting in between the flowers. He gives her a purple lavender even though she says she hates flowers, because he gives Peggy one and he thinks he would get punished for not giving her one.

“This tastes like you,” he says as they eat. Not because he thinks it is the right answer, but because it’s true.

“I hope so. I made it,” and it makes him smile again. Her grumpiness warms him as much as Peggy’s smile. He’s not afraid of it.

“Still tastes like blue, though,” he says, because she is like him. She will understand.

She does. Peggy is punished, but Becca is not. She looks at him, not sad, not smiling.

“The best kind of blue,” she says, seriously, then takes a bite so big some of the apples fall out.

He agrees. His heart is punished, but it also smiles.

~

“How does Becca know who she is?” He asks the next morning when Peggy comes to visit him, like she always does.

“She remembers,” Peggy replies.

“I can’t remember if I don’t know,” he tests, slowly.

“Perhaps not. Perhaps you can.”

“I don’t understand.” He does not know what that means.

“You are very special.”

No, he’s not special, he’s- important. He knows that. But he is _No One_ . _No One_ cannot be special.

He’s not _No One._

“Who are you?”

He sees something in her eyes, but does not know what it is.

“I am Peggy,” she says, and she sounds a little afraid. She sounds like he feels, all the time.

“You are Peggy Carter,” he says, and the something in her eyes is gone. “But who are you? What do you remember?”

“Oh,” she replies, and the fear is gone. She smiles, and its small but not sad. “I am Peggy Carter, I was born in Hampstead, England. I moved to Washington for my work, where I met my husband. I have two beautiful children and a cat.”

“And how do you remember all of this?”

“I never forgot.”

“So I have forgotten?”

“You were made to forget. It was not your choice. I would like to help you remember.”

“No.” He says, and he is punished again. It hurts his heart and he sees it in Peggy’s eyes.

~

“I know who I used to be,” he says.

It is the wrong thing to say. She stiffens, even the air around her stiffens. He can smell lavender, but it’s twisting his stomach.

He is not punished, so he keeps talking. “I used to be _No One_.”

She is still stiff, but doesn’t punish him. “And now?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits.

“But you are not _No One?”_

“No.”

And she smiles.

~

“I used to be no one.”

“But now?”

“I am someone.”

“You are someone.”

_You are someone._


	4. James

“I am someone,” he says when Peggy walks into the room. 

He didn’t wait, he has been pacing. He can’t stop the buzz in his bones, the itch under his skin. He doesn’t think he is being punished, but it’s uncomfortable.

“Yes you are,” she muses. Her smile warms his heart, he likes the shape of it and what it does to her eyes, but it doesn’t stop his itching skin.

The itchy is now in his mind. He thinks of scratching it, thinks of the taste of the cigarette with it’s soft scratching noises but it still itches.

“Who am I?” He demands, then stops. He is not allowed to demand, not even from Peggy. 

He stands, his hands clasped behind his back, a posture he does not know where he learnt but feels natural right now.

She smiles, again. She’s not happy, she’s entertained. But she is also wary. “Who would you like to be?” 

“Was I someone before?” 

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I would like to be him again.” It’s not confident. He’s testing. Peggy is still in control, for all that he demanded before.

“He was a very good person.”

“Did you know him?”

“Yes.” But somehow he already knew that. “He was my friend,” she adds. A friend, like Dum Dum or Becca. Perhaps she knew Becca, when Becca did not know who she was, and helped her know who she is.

Peggy is nothing but soft, and he thinks she will help him. Help the scratching, the itching, like the time she washed his hair. He remembers, and he is allowed to remember, now.

“What did he taste like?”

She smiles, but she doesn’t answer. He thinks he knows the answer.

It will turn her smile sad to say the word.

~

“I would like to help you, but I need you to know that I don’t really know what I’m doing either.”

“You helped Becca remember,” he points out, as he beats her at cards. Again.

“Becca never forgot,” she says, shuffling.

“Oh.” It’s no more than a breath. “So she’s not like me?”

“She is. Becca is your sister.”

“Oh,” again, because that’s all his mind, his body will let him say. No, his body will let him frown.

“Your name is Jame Buchanan Barnes.”

She sits.

He sits.

They wait, the cards are forgotten.

Peggy doesn’t want to wait any longer. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“No,” and it hurts her face a little. He thinks it might hurt his own face, too.

“It might take some time.”

“Those words mean nothing,” he says, adamantly, because his body is demanding today and he is not being punished for it. “But Becca is my sister.”

They continue to play cards and share a cigarette while he tries to think if it tastes like anything else, if it tastes like he has a sister. It doesn’t.

“And I am someone.”

Peggy smiles.

~

“You are Sergeant Barnes,” Peggy says the next day. 

She’s led them not to the grass, not to the gardens, but to a land full of tall trees. It is not an explosion of colour, like the gardens. This is an explosion of every shade of green and brown. There’s no smell of lavender here.

There is more grass. Wet grass, dry grass, a harsh grass coming from the brown, and a soft grass coming from the green.

“I thought you said I was James Buchanan Barnes?” He questions as he touches, he feels the browns and the greens without permission. He is not punished.

“You are more complex than just one name. But there are names that can be more suited to certain times of your life, or mean more for the things you’ve done.”

“But Becca is my sister throughout them all?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Who is Sergeant Barnes?”

“I’m torn between telling you too much and forcing new memories, and telling you enough to jog your own.” He stares at her blankly, and she sighs. “You are Sergeant Barnes of the 107th Infantry. You fought in World War II, a sniper, and a damned good soldier. And an even better man.”

“Mud,” he says. To her confusion, he explains, “Mud and cold.”

“I don’t know for sure, but perhaps yes. You served in Europe, it was cold and wet, and soldiers always traded cigarettes.”

He thinks of what else cigarettes taste like, but does not mention. He’s seen her reaction too many times. He doesn’t want it here, not in this sanctuary of green.

“And Dum Dum,” he adds.

He’s glad he said it, her smile is nice.

“Yes, you served with Dum Dum. A small unit, you were very close.”

“But not apple pie.”

“No, Becca was not in the war. Well, she was, a nurse, but you two never met up during that time. The taste of apple pie is from a different time.”

“From before or after?”

She pauses. He’s been leading the way over logs and dirt, he didn’t even realise, but she follows.

“What do you think?”

“Before?”

“Is that a question?”

“Before.” It’s not, this time.

“Yes. The taste of apple pie is from before.”

“A sniper?”

“In the war, yes.”

He doesn’t talk on the way back.

She walks him to his room, and he says, quietly, so she does not hear. “I think if I ask Becca she’d say she is still a better shot.”

She hears.

“I think she might.”

~

“You are from Brooklyn.”

He’s frustrated.

Peggy has come to visit and he’s frustrated. She has made him frustrated but he can’t tell her that. 

She says that he can, but he needs to tell her why.

It’s an order, so he tells her.

He tells her that he’s frustrated because she asked him if he wanted to go to the grass or the garden or the forest, and he’s not sure the right answer. And now she is telling him he is from Brooklyn, when yesterday she said he was from Europe.

“The first one is a choice.” He does not have control. “You are allowed to make your own choices.” He’s not. “You will not be punished for your choices.” He will be. He is. She still cries sometimes. She is punished and that punishes him and his heart. “The second, we talked about, remember? You are an accumulation of all of who you are throughout your life. In time, this will also be a part of who you are.”

“Is Brooklyn before or after Europe?”

“What do you think?”

He sighs again. He is still frustrated. “Before.”

“Yes.”

“And Becca is from Brooklyn.”

“Do you know that or did you work it out?”

He thinks. “Both, I think. But apple pie belongs in Brooklyn.”

“I like that. Maybe we will have apple pie tomorrow.”

“Is Becca coming?”

Peggy looks surprised. “No. Oh, but we can have apple pie without her.”

“No,” he says, and he is not punished.

“Okay.” 

~

“You are Bucky Barnes.”

This one hurts. It hurts his head and his heart and his ears.

He’s yelling, that’s why his ears are hurting. Peggy is crying, and maybe that’s why his heart is hurting but it started hurting before he even realised the tears were falling. He can smell them, he knows, but he thinks the words hurt his heart before they hurt Peggy.

His head hurts in a way he can’t explain.

“No.” He begs. He knows that he hasn’t begged in a long time, and begging is only for the worst kind of punishment. It is always met with a worse punishment than if he hadn’t begged, but he cannot help it. He begs anyway.

“Okay, but I would like to call you something. It can be anything you want.”

He thinks. He does not have an answer.

He wants to be called apple pie and cigarettes and lavender and Dum Dum’s loud laugh and the blue taste.

But he doesn’t know what that is. He doesn’t know who that is.

She leaves and she is not punished.

He is. He can smell the tears.

~

“James.” He says the next day, when she walks him to the forest. He can’t look at her when he says it. He doesn’t like it, but she wants to call him something. She brings him lavender and Becca and cigarettes so he would like to give her something back.

“Okay, James.”

He likes the forest, with its green and brown and smell of grass. It's damp, but he doesn't mind.

“There is something I think I could show you, that might help. But I fear it would also hurt you.” 

“A punishment?”

“No, but it would still hurt.”

“No,” he says. He still won’t look at her.

“No, I don’t think so either.”

~

“32557038,” he says to a bewildered Dum Dum and Peggy. He’s opened the door the minute he heard their footsteps. In truth he hadn’t expected Dum Dum, but he likes his laugh and Dum Dum knows who he is even though he does not.

“Gee, I don’t know, Sarge, but yeah, you spouted some shit like that late at night a few times.”

Peggy looks pleased.

“Sergeant, from Europe.”

“Sure are.”

“Can you tell me about it?” He asks as they walk. They are not punished.

Dum Dum does not have the same reservations about telling him information, but he also thinks that Dum Dum is being careful about what he is telling him.

Dum Dum offers to share a cigarette but he shakes his head. He does not want a taste in his head. He is trying to get a new taste, from hearing, from Dum Dum’s words.

He closes his eyes, it helps to block out the colours of the world as he does. He does not think Peggy or Dum Dum will punish him while his eyes are closed.

“Does any of that mean anything to you, Sarge?”

Sergeant. From Europe.

“Cigarettes and mud and cold and blue,” he says. He keeps his eyes closed so he can’t see their punishment. There is sun on his face and he likes it, as much as he likes the grass he is lying against and the smell of lavender from both him and Peggy and the smell of cigarettes from Dum Dum. 

But not as much as he likes the colour blue.

~

Peggy brings a picture, the next time she visits. A present, he hasn’t had any lately, not since Becca’s apple pie. He wants to place it next to his comb and his lavender flower and his cards and his cigarettes but he can’t put it down.

His young face and old voice is looking back at him.

There is a man that looks like Dum Dum, if his old face was young.

There are four other men in the photo, and he knows they are the men Dum Dum told him about.

“Is this going to hurt me?”

“No. I don’t know. This is not the thing that I thought would hurt you, but I can’t promise that this won’t hurt you either.”

“So it’s not a punishment?”

“No, I am never going to punish you, James. I am curious though, is it hurting you?”

His heart is something, warm maybe, but not hurting.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Can you tell me about this photo?”

“I know these men, I know this is from Europe. But because Dum Dum told me, not because I remember.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“It’s okay. I like it.”

He is allowed to like it.

He tells her all the facts he knows about the picture, the same facts she also heard from Dum Dum. He asks if he can keep it, because he’s not sure. He thinks it is a present, and no one has taken away his presents so far, but he wants to hear it.

“Of course. It’s yours.”

_Yours._

“Mine?”

_Mine._

She nods.

“It tastes like cigarettes and cold and mud. But not blue.”

She smiles. It’s sad.

He sleeps with the picture beside him in his bed.

~

Becca comes to visit, and she brings him as many presents as he owns.

He asks if Peggy has another place they can go. He is allowed to ask.

“Yes, and I think you will like this one too.”

“I’m allowed to like things,” he explains to Becca.

She scowls, and says “Of course you are, ya big dummy.”

It makes him laugh, he doesn’t know why, while Peggy walks them to some grass. He wanted somewhere different, he thinks when he sees the grass, but Peggy knows this, and there is water here as well. And ducks.

Becca’s first present is apple pie. He likes the taste, wishes he could keep it beside his bed with all his other presents, but also never wants to stop eating it. He doesn’t like the taste of much in his mouth, except cigarettes and apple pie. It punishes Peggy to tell her that when she asks why he isn’t eating, but she says it is punishing him, he is too skinny, he needs to eat. He doesn’t eat. He tries, when it’s an order, but Peggy doesn’t order him anymore.

Becca’s second present is a picture. Two pictures, actually. She hands them to him, and like Peggy, asks him to talk about them.

He’s confused, because she hasn’t told him anything about Brooklyn before Europe. He knows this is a test. He shakes his head, but he isn’t punished.

No one talks, and he thinks they might not until he does. So he looks at the picture.

He can see himself, young, younger than he is now but he doesn’t think that means anything. There is a man and a lady, both older, and then three young ladies. But they’re not, they’re young too, much younger, they’re girls.

“Brooklyn,” he says. Becca smiles and nods, her eyes are excited.

“Sisters?” He asks, and Peggy shoots a look at Becca before she says anything.

“What do you know, James?”

He shakes his head.

“What do you think?”

“Sisters,” he confirmed. “This one is Becca. These two look like her.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“Sisters,” he says again, frowning, because he already said it.

Becca sighs. She looks to Peggy, who nods. “Grace and Evelyn. Gracie and Evie. And that’s Ma and Pa.”

“Can I keep this?” He asks.

“Of course, it’s yours.”

 _Yours. Mine_.

The next picture is just him.

“Sergeant Barnes,” he says, and it's not a question. “From Europe.”

“Well, yes, they took that before you shipped out. But yes.”

He looks between the two pictures.

“I have other sisters?”

“Yes.”

“Will they come visit too?”

“Yes,” but it’s Peggy who answers. “In time. We were not sure if they would make you sad.” They will punish him. “And they are sad too.” They are punished.

“Are you not sad?” He asks Becca. She has not been punished, not yet.

“Nah. You’re too annoying to make me sad. And we were always closest anyway. We did everything together, because we were closest in age.” He raises his eyebrows. His face is young but hers is old. She laughs. “Yeah, well, there’s that.”

“Do they like apple pie?”

“Very much so.”

The last present is a book. “A sketchbook,” Becca calls it, but Peggy takes it before he can open the pages.

He jerks back and bows his head. He waits for his punishment. It does not come.

For the first time, Becca is punished. She cries.

“It’s not a punishment James,” Peggy says softly.

He is silent. Becca’s mouth is down and she still cries.

“You can have it one day. Just not today. I think it will hurt you,” she explains.

“A punishment?”

“No,” Peggy says. “But I still think it will hurt you.”

~

Peggy and Becca and Dum Dum bring him presents until there’s too many to sleep beside him in his bed.

“I don’t think you are remembering enough by yourself,” she explains. “I’m doing this wrong. I don’t know what is right or wrong,” she admits, and she looks sad. It’s a different kind of sad.

“Thank you, for the presents,” he says, and she seems less sad. 

He doesn’t know where to start, so he goes back to the picture Dum Dum gave him, with the six men. There is blue missing from it, but he knows Peggy will be sad if he brings it up.

“Am I soldat?”

“I wish I could say no. But yes, you are soldat.”

He continues to look at the photo that is not blue enough.

“James,” she breathes. He looks at her, surprised, but not as surprised as she seems to be. “Who told you that?”

“No one,” he says. “What’s wrong?” Because something is wrong, and maybe they will be punished.

“If no one told you that, how did you know?” He shrugs, because it means he doesn’t understand. “Have you known that the whole time, or did you remember?”

“I- I don’t know.” Because he now understands. “I think I always knew. I just didn’t understand.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointed, and it hurts his heart. “I just thought maybe you remembered something. It’s not something I’d like you to remember first, not without knowing who you are, who you were, but it would be remembering, nonetheless.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologises. 

“It’s not your fault and no one will be punished. I have another idea, as well. It might help organise your brain, a little.”

She hands him a little book, it looks like the sketchbook she took from him on the first day but he knows it is not.

“Write down the things you know, and remember. And then even, if you forget, you can see it written down and always remember.”

He needs to confirm.

“You won’t take it away?”

“No James. This is yours.”

_Yours. Mine. James’._

So he starts writing down everything he knows, but only has been told. Sometimes the letters come out weird and wrong and Peggy says she doesn’t understand them, but he does. It gives him a little heart happy, that he understands something that she doesn’t.

~

“I’m not him,” he decides firmly, as he scribbles. They’re outside, near the water, where Becca gave him photos and apple pie and a present that Peggy took away.

“You-”

“No,” he says firmly again, because Peggy lets him. “I have two books full of words that mean nothing to me. And I know they’re wrong. I think either you are telling me the wrong thing or I am the wrong person.”

“No, you are James Buchanan Barnes from Brooklyn, Sergeant in the 107th Infantry.” She left out the one that made him scream. “Everything you’ve written is him. Is you.” 

“It doesn’t feel like me.”

“Who does it feel like?”

“Not me.”

“Who do you feel like?”

“I feel like the taste of cigarettes in my mind,” because he knows she will understand.

“And these words you write, that you hear, aren’t the taste in your mind?”

“No. They’re someone else.”

“James,” she says, and her voice is shaky. He wants to touch her elbow, like she does to him, but he knows his hands are not soft. “I think the taste in your mind is someone else. I think you are trying to remember someone else.

“I don’t remember anyone. I don’t know anyone. I only know you, and Becca, and Dum Dum.”

“No. I think you can’t remember yourself because you are trying to remember someone else. I said I didn’t want to show you this, because I think it will hurt you even though I don’t mean it as a punishment. But I don’t think you will remember anything until I do. I understand now.”

“I don’t.”

“James, do you remember… Do you feel blue?”

“I feel blue,” he says, even though he knows it will make her sad. And it does.

She leads him back to the room.

She asks him to sit, with all his presents. She tucks a lavender flower into his button hole.

She hands him a picture. 

"Bucky, this is Steve."

~

He sits

He waits

There is blood on his hands

There is blood on his knees

He is being punished

A lady comes

He does not know who she is

She cries

She is being punished 

He sleeps

He forgets


	5. Bucky

James can hear the soft sounds of human life as he comes to consciousness. They are not from him, he realises, no, they are distant, but close enough that he can hear them, though he knows he can hear a far way. They are also not the sounds he knows himself to make, but he knows them as well as he knows himself.

Even better, he realises.

He ignores the itching in his mind, constantly itching, scratching telling him that he will be punished, it has been a long time, and he deserves it.

He ignores the screaming in his cells that tells him he is in danger, to run, to kill, to hide.

He ignores the ache in his spine, his shoulders, his ribs, both muscles and bones, where his greatest weapon is affixed.

He does not ignore the uncomfortable he feels, however. It is uncomfortable, a sharp pain in his side, and a tickle in his neck.

He stiffens, he finds that helps with his focus.

It’s his presents. The lavender on his neck, his writing book in his side.

He relaxes a little, into soft soft soft, with a sigh. He has presents. They haven’t been taken away. He is not being punished, he is not in danger, he is not in pain, he is simply uncomfortable.

He is not in pain or punished, but she is.

His eyes flutter open. He knows he can be by her side in a second, knows how to dismantle a threat with his writing book and wipe her tears with the lavender, but he does none of those things.

"Oh James!" Peggy cries, as she notices him waking. Her not as young face tells him she has cried many tears while he has been asleep. Her tears are always because of him. “Are you okay?”

He looks at her in bewilderment. He doesn’t understand her concern, there does not seem to be any reason. He checks his body over although he has already done so upon consciousness, he is not injured. He did not check his arm, however perhaps it is malfunctioning. She watches, still punished as he reviews it, but finds it perfectly optimal.

He looks at her, she herself seems unharmed even though there are tears. Peggy can cry tears though heart punishment, he has long been aware of this, and her heart punishment is from things he has said or done.

But he has been asleep.

“What happened?” He asks curiously, in the same gentle tone she uses with him. It calms his punished heart, and he hopes it does the same for her.

“What do you remember?”

He frowns. The question is difficult, hurts, because he cannot remember. She knows this. He is unable to, but every inch of his body that was screaming danger only moments before is now pleading for him to remember.

“I’m not - I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

She continues to look at him, and he wants to ask how much she can actually see through her tears. He decides it will cause her punishment, so instead asks, “Will you tell me what happened?”

It is a look of resignment, she wears as she takes a large breath. “Do you remember that I said I could tell you something that would hurt you? That was not a punishment, but could still hurt you?”

The pleading in his skin is still there, but this he remembers. “Yes.”

“I told you, and it hurt you. And I’m sorry.”

“Did I cry?” He asks, because he has not been punished other than heart hurt in a long time, and he is curious of his reaction. He knows he can cry, and scream, or make no noise at all, and it is useful to categorise which punishments result in differing responses. He can also smell tears, but they are not Peggy’s.

“It was a little more than that.”

He waits, and feels through his body again. His shoulder, his ribs, his spine, they hurt, but they have always hurt. They will never stop hurting, his is being punished for existing. But there is not other pain, no new pain, nothing to tell him that he was, or is, hurt. It must be his heart, that is the only thing he cannot see. 

James fumbles in his bed for the book that was pushing into his side. She looks at him, in shock, as he draws his knees up, book open.

“I don’t remember. So tell me, and I will write it down. And then I can always remember, even if I do not.”

“Maybe it would be a kindness not to.”

“Peggy,” he sighs. Exasperation, she calls it. “If you want me to remember who I am, I think I shall have to remember all of it. And you say I don’t remember until I know.”

“I’m not sure you are remembering at all.”

He gives Peggy a sort of look he knows he is allowed to give her. It’s the same look Becca sometimes gives him, of grumpiness, that makes him laugh. It doesn’t make Peggy laugh, but she sighs herself, as if she is not in control, and he is.

She wrings her soft hands together. “I told you two names, and they hurt you. But I do, I do think you remembered, you remembered something. Because you said you are not allowed to remember, you begged me not to let you, and something else, it was in Russian, I didn’t understand. But you went so silent and still, and it was like - James, I don’t know what happened. But you were in so much pain. I couldn’t see it, I don’t know what was hurting-”

“My heart,” he interrupts, because Peggy likes to know things, and he cannot give her the same presents she gives him, but he likes to give her things nonetheless.

“Yes, at the start, maybe. But then I think you punished yourself for remembering, because I wouldn’t. Or maybe you thought you were a danger, a threat to be eliminated. You locked yourself in the bathroom, and broke the mirror, and used the sharp to-. I’m sorry,” she sniffles, but he keeps writing, his scratching almost louder than her small sounds. It’s the same sort of scratching the cigarette tastes like in his mind. “I ran to sound the alarm, I know I’m not strong enough to stop you myself, but when I came back it all just stopped. You were, well, you were not quite you. You were not quite anyone, I don’t think. You were just sitting on the bed, covered in blood, so blank. You wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t sleep, I just-.”

“Soldat,” he confirms, once he finishes scribbling in the letter he knows Peggy will not understand.

“Yes, I think so too. Did you know that?”

“I knew it. But I did not know it. Now I know it.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, looking down at her intertwined hands.

“Why?”

“I upset you.” 

He does not remember, so maybe that negates it. Maybe he will still need to be punished in another way that he will remember, but he looks to Peggy and he thinks that will not happen.

Instead, he says, “Well, I upset you, so I think I am sorry too.”

“We are both sorry, but please believe I am the sorrier of the two. Do you remember what happened before that? What possibly could have caused Soldat?”

“Pain triggers Soldat,” he confirms, but he is not sure exactly how he knew this, or for how long. “Pain and words. I think they are Russian, but you do not know Russian. You said two names, and they were not Russian.”

“Yes, one was yours, and the other was not.”

“Neither were mine.”

“Okay.”

“Who are they?”

“Bucky is what your friends call you. Bucky Barnes.” He knows this. His heart is already hurting from it, but he does not scream this time. He does not have the energy, or the oxygen, or the desire to hurt Peggy, to scream.

“And who is Steve?”

“Steve was your friend. He called you Bucky.”

“Is he coming to visit?” He asks, because Peggy’s friends Dum Dum and Becca have visited. But she said his friend, not her friend. And his heart is continuing to hurt, with the words Bucky and Steve.

“No,” she smiles, but it’s sad again, almost as the sad as the smiles she gives him. She said was, he realises, and perhaps that is where the sad and the hurt is coming from. 

He knows it, in fact. He doesn’t remember it, he just knows it. 

“Steve is blue. Steve was blue,” he corrects.

“Yes.”

He takes a moment to accumulate all his knowledge, from Becca and Dum Dum and Peggy, and the taste of cigarettes. But he already knows. “The best kind of blue.”

“The best kind,” she agrees.

He falls back in his bed. It is still soft, but the lavender no longer tickles and the book no longer pokes.

“Can you tell me about him?

“I- Yes. I won’t show the picture again, not yet. Do you remember what he looks like?”

“No, I only know blue.” That is a lie, he thinks of what she showed him, he does remember. He doesn’t remember anything except the picture, but that is also a lie. He remembers that if he says yes, there will be a chair, and electricity, and blood, perhaps tears and screams and _No One._

So he lies, both to Peggy and into his soft bed, surrounded by presents, and listens dutifully as she talks.

“Are you going to write that down?” She asks, once it’s clear she has finished.

“I think I will remember. It all sounds blue.”

Peggy leaves, with the promise of returning tomorrow. She doesn’t need to promise, he knows that she will, but he once told her of the warmth in his heart he feels when she says it.

Bucky finds he can’t sleep, he stays awake, trying to remember. Not what Peggy told him, no he will remember that, but remember something, _anything._ But it’s not just that. His mind tells him that if he sleeps, he will forget. No- he knows. Because Peggy has told him and he _knows._ Like he knows that cigarettes taste like mud and cold and blue from Europe.

And he knows that they also taste like Brooklyn car beeps and scratching on a sketchbook that was taken away from him and blue. 

Not just a blue, Steve.

So he stays awake, and draws drags of a cigarette that he doesn’t share with anyone. In the quiet of the night, his mind is allowed to taste as much as he wants.

As much as he needs it.

And he needs it, the taste, as desperately as he needs the oxygen in his lungs. He knows what it is like to be deprived of air, for too long, to splutter and gasp and open everything wide in a vain hope of requital, and that is what his mind needs right now, for memories.

They do not come, but in the morning, Peggy does.

“I haven’t seen any blue flowers,” he says, rather curiously. For all that he may have seen of the world, that could be untrue, but from what he remembers, he has not.

“Neither have I,” she admits. “Would you like to go find some?”

They walk for hours, but they can’t find any blue flowers. James’ disheartenment is not overwhelming, for the walk itself is nice, the sun, the feel of Peggy’s hand.

When they return to his room he says. “I think I would like to cut my hair.”

Her reaction is not what he is expecting. “Oh,” a small puff of air accompanied by a slight frown, before she composes herself. “Why do you want to cut it?”

“You said it would help me remember.”

“I don’t know what is helping you, James. It’s been so long, and I’m not sure what is working. But if you want to, then we shall.”

“I want to cut it,” he confirms. 

She returns with a pair of scissors, and hands them to him.

“No,” he breathes.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“No, I just- Will you do it? How you remember?”

“Of course.”

Again, his body screams at him to run from the danger, the scissors, the sharp that could enter his neck or his head or his back, either deep in agony or light in tease. It's a battle against his mind, which screams to stay, to comply, to endure. But Peggy is as soft as ever, murmuring as she goes, calming both his mind and body, and his heart. She is singing, he realises. He has not heard her sing before, but it makes him close his eyes and think of blue.

“I don’t like it.” He says once he’s opened his eyes. He looks like the pictures he has, of himself. 

But he is not himself.

“Then we will have to let it grow again. It may take some time,” she adds, almost regretfully.

“Thank you,” he breaths, softer than she should hear. But as always, she does, and she smiles as she closes the door.

He does not let himself sleep again when she leaves.

This time, he shares a cigarette with the darkness, and he does not taste as much as he wants or needs. He tastes just enough, and looks through his presents as he does so. He still does not remember. Not Brooklyn, not Europe. Perhaps somewhere else, but not what anyone so far has told him.

“You knew Steve.” It’s not a question, it’s a rather obvious statement considering the information she gave him previously. But he still has to know for himself, sometimes, he finds that helps him remember the words better. They are not yet a taste in his mind, but they are words, and he knows that is a good thing.

“Yes.”

“Was he your friend?” Peggy has a lot of friends, and he likes them all. He wonders what presents Steve gave her.

“I-”, he thinks he understands the reaction. It’s not just her face or her body, it’s the air around her.

“Was he your husband?”

“No, but I rather hoped.” She smiles, and it is somehow happy and sad at the same time. He frowns, for he has known Peggy every day that he remembers, but he has not seen this smile before. Furthermore, he is unsure if it is a reward or a punishment, it seems to be a limbo, bardot between the two. But not quite neutral. It’s odd, and he’s not sure he likes the placement of her features.

“What happened?”

“Well, he died.” The awful look is gone, replaced only by sadness, and now James himself feels sad for being the cause.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” he adds, because he is. He really truly is.

“So am I. But it was a long time ago now.”

They sit in silence, and James decides to share a cigarette. They are hers, in the first place, for all that she says they are his, but he wins them off her at a card game he now suspects she lets him win some of the time. Her eyes glint in a certain light even when the room doesn't change, and by now he knows all her tells. He doesn't mind, he allows it, and in the end, they still share their cigarettes.

“I remember fragments now,” he mentions as they sit in the forest. She has brought a picnic, she calls it, with rich foods, but he is drawn to the warm drink. It is his latest present, and like the apple pie, he is torn between holding it with him forever, and consuming it. It is warm, it warms his hands, even impossibly the metal hand, and he is glad because it even warms his heart. She is drinking also, coffee, she calls it, and he thinks they will both need warm hearts after he speaks.

“Will you share them with me?” 

He knew she was going to ask, but he said it anyway. “I think they will punish you.”

“No one will punish you here, James.”

“No, I mean my memories. I think they will punish you.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Your eyes. The tears, you cry, you are being punished. And that punishes me. My heart,” he explains.

She looks at him in horror. “Oh, James. Is that what you’ve thought this whole time? Is that what you’ve felt?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I wish you had said something. Nothing you do can hurt me James,” but he knows the lie. “We do not punish each other here, do you understand me? I will never punish you, and you can never punish me.”

“Okay,” he lies himself. Based on her reaction to his confession, he does not think she will want to hear that she punishes his heart sometimes, because she believes she is not. It is the worst punishment of all, so far, but he can live it if there is lavender and soft and blue.

“I remember a table. I remember round glasses, and I remember a chair, and electricity, and blood. I remember a General, but he does not remember anything because I killed him. There were children and dogs, and a drill and-, I think yes, that is what I remember.”

“How long have you remembered.”

“A while.”

“Since the picture of Steve?”

“No, maybe a bit before, I don’t know. Sometimes I don't even remember, I just know, and it feels I've already known, even though I just stumble across it in the moment.”

“Do you remember anything from before then?”

He shakes his head. “Just the taste of cigarettes and apple pie in my mind. The other night I thought maybe, perhaps, but I read my writing book and I think I just wrote down the wrong thing in it, and it was a memory I had been told.”

“They sound like memories. Perhaps they are working backwards.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, you remember yesterday, and last week. And now you are remembering things from three years ago, and a bit more. Hopefully you will remember things from 25 years ago soon.”

He looks at her in bewilderment. “How many years do I have to remember?”

“53 years, James. You are 53 years old.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m 49. We are aging slightly differently.” That is obvious, but he was not aware.

He was not aware how could he be so stupid blood he is malfunctioning please don’t there is no oxygen _No One_ soldat Buchanan no memories chair -

“James? James!”

“That’s too much. That’s too many, I can’t - I can’t, I don’t, please don’t make-”

“No punishment, James, no punishment,” she says, but moves to punish him.

She touches him he flinches but she does not know nor care for she is about to punish him she pulls him into her arms and-

She is holding him and his heart warms as he breathes in the smell of lavender. She is holding him, gently, and rocking, softly, and has her hand in his short but still shiny hair. She is not punishing him.

“You’re okay,” she says as he looks up. He can smell his tears but he can also feel them as she wipes them away.

“I’m okay,” he whispers. He doesn't believe it, not truly, but in this moment, he wants to. He is allowed to want, Peggy assures him, but he doesn't do it often just in case.

He does not sleep again that night, for he now knows just how much he has to remember.

In the morning, he has not remembered anything, but he has not forgotten anything. He finds if he rocks himself gently, he is okay, like Peggy promised. 

“I think I was trying to be Steve. I- I don’t mean to. It’s just, he’s the last thing I saw. That I remember, being real, between then and now.”

“Yes that is the power of Steve,” she pauses. “You remember falling? And seeing Steve?”

He stills, because he does, but he finds that he does not want to. He does not like his memories, but Peggy has asked, so he nods to appease her.

“I know it’s not a happy memory, James, but you do have good memories. I promise.”

He almost doesn’t believe her, but she promised. Just as she promises to come back each day, and she does. He knows she can lie, but so can he, and right now he thinks he believes her.

He has not slept in a while now, but the coffee helps. It also does not, he feels weary, he feels frustrated as they walk. They do not share a cigarette, he finds their taste being clouded lately, though he cannot remember or pinpoint what the cloud is. It is not as soft as his bed or Peggy’s hands. 

“How long has it been? Have you visited me, how long has it been?” He asks, when she looks confused. He supposes if he doesn’t remember, perhaps he thinks of time differently.

“Almost three years.”

“I must be malfunctioning. Perhaps it is time to get a new asset.”

She looks horrified, and upset at the suggestion, though that was not his intention. He only thought it could bring her some calm that the lavender does not anymore. It might ease her heart punishment and require less handkerchiefs.

And he himself is tired. He doesn't believe it is a physical fatigue, though he has been awake for days, but he is tired of not remembering, of failing, of rereading words which have no meaning.

“James, I would never give up on you.”

“It’s only logical,” he points out, regardless of the fact that she appears smarter than he could ever be, even though he wants nothing more than her visits.

“Logic be damned,” and she speaks it with such finality and grumpiness that it reminds him of Becca. He almost laughs, but the air tells him not to and she continues. “I spent 5 years trying to get you back, I am not giving up on you. I love you.”

With that, the oxygen is stolen from his lungs. Peggy keeps walking, but he feels he is frozen in his spot, suspended in time. He knows what he had been trying to do all that time and why he has been trying to, and why she is so sad around him. Why, the only why, she has tried for so long, even though he constantly fails her and himself.

“I’m not Steve,” he tells her quietly.

Those words are no softer on her heart than his judicious suggestion. She takes a moment, before she replies. “No, you are not. But you are my friend, I love you as my friend, and I will keep trying for that.”

“I was trying to be Steve,” he needs to make her see, see his reason, see his pain. And the minute he says it, he feels… a calm the lavender could never bring. In 13 languages he could say free, or peace, or serene. But he will not. He would rather hear what Peggy has to say.

“You are not Steve, and I would never want you to be. Neither would he. You are James.” The words settle in his heart, where his blue used to be moments ago, before his confession, before the calm.

He shakes his head, and looks to the horizon. Unforced, he smiles. 

She frowns, not in anger, and he smiles further, it is clear that he knows another thing that she doesn’t. It’s rare, so he takes a moment to capture it, to commit it to a memory he never wants to need to write down. He does know, he knows that he can smell something she cannot, can see something she cannot, but their hearts will feel in the same way once he shows her.

James takes control.

He laces his fingers through her hand, it is soft, and he knows his is not because he has used his metal hand, so he makes sure to keep his pull gentle as he leads her up a hill. 

An idea forms, he’s not sure where from, and it surprises him, but he thinks it is a gift he can give Peggy. He wonders if she will be surprised, if she will like her present.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers, and he’s right. She starts to smile, even though she’s not sure what the present is. Like James, she likes all presents.

He walks away, and picks a flower, from a field that doesn’t seem to end until it meets the golden half sun in the sky.

With the smell of calm by his side, he walks back to Peggy, and brings her hands up so she can hold her present. He cups his hands around her, he doesn’t want to let go of his gift, not yet, even though there is a field he can get his own from. He wants to share this with her, more than a cigarette or a picture, and hopes she will find the peace in her heart that he has just now.

He has found some lavender, so strong, and such a deep colour, he knows it is his blue lavender flower.

“I am Bucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I posted this quickly and unedited and unpolished, but I think in a way that all the flaws add to Bucky's authenticity and confusion and lack of defined idea of who he is or what's going on.  
> If I was to, say, write from Peggy's point of view, I do believe it would be a completely different story, even down to the words and it would be much more succint, and heart breaking, whilst also analytical.  
> But alas, here is my sprouted bubba Bucky fic, I hope you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> This is so different from my other works, I'm aware, but I couldn't not. I'm not 100% sure I like it being in my Kodaline universe, but I really like it with the song and I think is a simple piece, so for now it stays!  
> It was so weird to write, but also fun to extend myself like this.  
> I hope it reflects Bucky's state of mind, the simplicity and conflict of his life after Hydra.


End file.
